Page 15 of Connected
It was a polite kiss, undemanding and not at all pushy. A gentleman-on-a-first-date kiss that tasted of sugared peaches. But behind all of the sweetness and courtesy burned passion hot enough to scorch. And damned if that didn’t set Keaton on fire too.
Owen was the first to pull away. He looked down solemnly at Keaton. “I wish I knew what you were feeling right now.”
“Then I can just tell you. I’m surprised—in a good way. And I’m incredibly turned on.”
“Yeah?” When Owen smiled like that, he looked almost like a kid.
“You’ve been waiting for two decades to give me that kiss. From my point of view, it was worth the wait. I think I’m a better option than a magazine photo, and nobody’s going to walk in on us.” Keaton stroked Owen’s cheek with his thumb. “You know, the first time I saw you, I thought you were pretty hot. But I was too busy being surly and drunk to do anything about it.”
Owen started to lean down again but stopped. “Shit. I’m supposed to be working.”
“Can it wait?”
“I don’t want to risk stumbling around the tipple in the dark.” He stepped back and out of the embrace, which was a shame. “I’m going to head up there again, just to confirm nothing hinky’s going on. Then I’ll be back. I could… take you out to dinner? I’ll pay—not the Bureau.”
“Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Clark?”
“I guess I am.”
Keaton tugged him down for a quick peck on the cheek. “Good.”
He sent Owen off with another muffin and watched through the small parlor’s window as Owen’s car pulled out of the driveway and rumbled down the street. Then Owen headed for the larger parlor, where the wallpaper awaited him.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
CHAPTER 6
Owen didn’t want to think about Keaton. No, that wasn’t true. Hedidwant to think about him, but he knew he shouldn’t. He was on an assignment. There would be plenty of time to ponder the man later.
But Owen didn’t drive straight to the tipple, which was northeast of town. Instead he veered northwest, bouncing the Bureau’s fancy SUV along a couple of unpaved roads until he came to a halt outside the entrance to what had once been Angel Butte Ranch. Maybe it was still called that, although there was no sign, and the little house he’d grown up in was gray and boarded up. All of the outbuildings were decaying or had collapsed entirely. The acreage that his family used to keep in alfalfa or barley hadn’t been irrigated and was gone to weeds.
He got out of the car and leaned against the hood while he ate his muffin, gazing out at the place where he’d spent his first eighteen years. It had never been a productive ranch. The soil was poor and the butte that spread just behind it—and had given the ranch its name—acted as a sort of umbrella, blocking much-needed rain. On this ranch, wells had run dry, cattle had contracted diseases, irrigation equipment had failed, machinery had broken down. One disaster right after another until hopeswithered and the only thing keeping the family going was pure cussedness.
Owen wondered what emotions Keaton would sense in him if they were together here. Owen wasn’t used to examining himself and wasn’t sure what he felt. If pressed, he’d say that there was mostly numbness inside him, with something tight and painful at the center. He prodded it a little, like testing a sore tooth with his tongue, but the angry knot hurt too much and he backed off.
For the first time in years he allowed himself to wonder what had become of his parents and siblings. His father was dead—Owen knew that—and his brother Andy lived in town. It was Andy who’d sought him out; Owen had his address. But he didn’t know whether his mother still lived or what had happened to Pete, his other brother. What had they done to survive after losing the ranch?
Did any of them ever think about him and regret casting him out?
Owen glanced up and for the first time noticed the clouds gathering to the west behind the butte. They were, as his mother would have said, as dark as sin. He needed to finish his work at the tipple before the storm rolled in.
He brushed his hands free of crumbs, got back in the SUV, and drove away.
The nearest housesto the tipple were almost a mile away from the structure. Back in the early 1900s, the railroad had purchased all the land around here, opened the coal mine and tipple, and built a company town of creaky little shacks to house the workers. Owen had learned in school that there had even been a general store and a café—also owned by the railroad,of course—although residents had needed to travel a few miles, into Rock Springs, to get drunk or conduct other business.
But the whole place had been abandoned long before he was born, and all the houses had been lost in a fire. The railbed was gone now too, either dug up or obscured by scrub. The only thing that remained was the tipple itself: a long, multi-segmented building made of concrete and steel, leaning against the hillside on rickety-looking stilts. In the bright sunlight it resembled a massive abstract sculpture.
Even though Owen had grown up nearby and seen all of this before, the landscape seemed alien to his eyes, as if he’d been transported to another planet. The slopes were terraced from mining, denuded of all but the hardiest low-growing plants. He couldn’t see or hear any birds or insects, and his own heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud.
Keaton had said that when he stopped here, he’d felt despair, pain, fear. Although Owen was no empath, he could almost sense those things too, the same way he sensed the faint breeze brushing against his skin. The pale hairs on his arms were raised—but maybe that was due to the pressure changes from the coming storm. The dark clouds were moving closer.
Since he wasn’t certain what he’d be confronting, Owen gathered his array of basic equipment. He buckled on the duty belt, which had holsters for a knife and gun—the special bullets would take down a vampire, a shifter, and other hard-to-kill creatures—and a taser. He carried some of the same gear a cop might, such as handcuffs and a flashlight, and also gear specific to his job, such as a bundle of sage and a packet of salt. It was a lot, and he was always conscious of the way that wearing the gear altered his gait, making his stance wider and his footfalls heavier.
He glanced at the storm clouds, tucked his phone into a pouch on his belt, and pushed his way through a broken sectionof chain-link fence. It was important to watch his footing on the rocky and uneven terrain, littered with rusted scraps of metal, chunks of concrete, and other debris. There were animal holes too, largely due to rabbits and rodents, and there were probably snakes. He didn’t especially want to step on a rattler.
From this morning’s visit, he knew he wouldn’t find anything of interest on the grounds; he needed to explore the building itself. His gut clenched at the thought, and he told himself that his anxiety was simply because the structure was likely unstable.
The easiest way into the building was at the uppermost end, and he had to scramble up the slope for several yards and then pick his way across a badly cracked concrete slab to get to the door. Although it was padlocked shut, a few blows with the base of his flashlight broke the hasp free, and then all he had to do was shove hard to get the door open.
